The glare.
I said, "Your smiling just now when I said you guys were worried about other witnesses finding out. You shouldn't have found that funny, unless I was a little off the mark."
Hendrix just stared now.
I said, "What am I missing?"
Robinette turned for the door. "I do not see any purpose in going further with this."
To her back I said, "No, I wasn't being specific enough, was I? You've been at Plymouth Willows for two years, yet 'Andrew Dees' moved in just over a year ago. Hendrix has this management cover for longer than that, and here in Marshfield, instead of down in Plymouth Mills. Why?"
Hendrix and Kourmanos looked quickly toward Robinette's profile. Braverman shuffled his feet behind me, the first thing he'd done for a while.
Leaning back in my chair, I said, "Bet I know why."
Robinette turned around. "All right, let us in on it."
"Plymouth Willows was a complex in trouble. Lana Stepanian told me that. Some of the people were pioneers, and others came later, but when the developer went belly up, a real estate trust bailed out the operation, kept it viable. The 'C.W. Realty Trust,' only Stepanian didn't know much about the trust itself because the documents are confidential. The initials stand for 'Cooperating Witness,' don't they?"
Going green around the gills again, Hendrix started to say something, but Robinette held up her hand, and he swallowed his comment instead.
I said, "When the developer of the complex had problems, the FDIC had to step in. There's an auction of properties, and your outfit—another federal agency, but one that needs 'housing,' so to speak—raises its hand as the C.W. Realty Trust and buys up all the distressed units you want. At Plymouth Willows, and given Boycie's operation here, probably elsewhere in the area as well. It's perfect, really. You send your witnesses, one each, to East Jibib or North Moosejaw, somebody has to babysit them one each as well, or at least drive a few hours to drop in and take their temperatures from time to time. Instead, Ms. Robinette can watch over a whole bunch at Plymouth Willows, and her counterparts the others elsewhere on the South Shore, while Mr. Hendrix sits in his management office here and oversees everything efficiently. The oversight includes hiring superintendents like Paulie Fogerty, somebody who'll do a fine job of maintaining the grounds but probably not ask awkward questions about the residents. By having the witnesses 'buy' their hideouts, they're more encouraged to stay in them, not walk away from any equity they might have built up. You even had Dees file a homestead exemption on his unit to protect that equity from future creditors. Tell me, Boycie, is that how I could find the other protected witnesses, just by cross-referencing the complexes you manage and the registry of deeds for any homestead exemptions over the last few years?"
Hendrix looked worse than green. Robinette's eyes were shooting lightning bolts at me.
I said, "But for all that to work, somebody like Dees can't know that other people at Plymouth Willows are in the program too. And that probably means he can't know that you're a watcher, am I right?"
Robinette said, "I really wish you had not stuck your nose into this, Mr. Cuddy."
"Ms. Robinette, I don't give one of your 'rat's' asses about what you wish. You answer my next question, though, and I'll be out of your hair and not share my thoughts with anybody else."
She didn't like the situation any more than Hendrix had earlier. "What is your question?"
I'd been remembering how vague Lana Stepanian had seemed about her husband's hometown, Norman Elmendorf the same about his duty station in the Gulf War. "Is either of the Stepanians in the program?"
Robinette took a moment to say, "No. They bought at Plymouth Willows before we established there.”
"Is the same true for the Elmendorfs?"
"You already had your next question, Mr. Cuddy."
"Be generous, Ms. Robinette."
It took an effort, but she said, "They are not in the program, either."
"Thank you. Now, this last one's a toss-up question for any team member who wants to take it. What the hell has happened to my client?"
Nobody answered.
"Al1 right, I think I believe you." I stood up slowly.
"Where's my gun?"
Kourmanos handed me the Chiefs Special and its bullets separately.
Without reloading, I put the revolver back in the holster.
"How about a lift from somebody back to my car at Plymouth Willows?"
Robinette almost smiled. "I am going that way myself."
* * *
We'd been riding for maybe five of the twenty minutes to Plymouth Mills when Tangela Robinette said, "This goes in a report, lots of people could be hurt."
"My client may already be hurt."
“Self-inflicted wound."
I looked at her. "That's pretty harsh, don't you think?"
A glance to me, then, like Primo Zuppone, she checked all the mirrors before speaking. "If your client believes in love, she does not hire a private investigator, and you never disturb the hornets' nest."
"Ms. Robinette, my client told me she was crazy about Andrew Dees, told me by word and body language both. She's an intelligent, aware businesswoman. What was she supposed to do, ignore that her lover seems to have been dropped as an adult from a spaceship?"
Robinette started to say something, then deflected herself. "What are you going to do about your client?"
"Try to find her. Or at least, find out what happened to her."
"You think she is with Dees?"
"On the level?"
"Yes."
"I'm afraid to think."
Robinette glanced over again. "I do not understand."
"You've been part of the marshals' program long enough to have had some contact with the mob by now?"
"Some," she said dryly.
"You ever know them to be subtle about the body of a guy who flipped on them?"
A moment before, "No."
"They make a statement, some splashy kind of taboo warning to others who might be so inclined."
Some steel came into Robinette's voice again. "We pronounce it 'voodoo,' Mr. Cuddy."
"Don't get you."
"I am Haitian. You think I missed your 'taboo' comment?"
"I hadn't thought of it that way."
A third glance.
Looking toward her, I said, "Truly. I was picturing some old movie, the skull on a stake at the entrance to the valley. 'Walk no farther'."
" 'Said the savage black native to the civilized white explorer'."
"If that's the way you want to take it."
Another moment before she said, "I am sorry. You really were not trying to be insulting, were you?"
"No, I wasn't."
We passed through Plymouth Mills, the sidewalks downtown as quiet as if someone had rolled them up. Just before the bridge, I turned to Robinette. "Straight answer to a straight question?"
"Try it and see."
"You people really don't know whether my client and this Dees guy hit the silk together, do you?”
"Straight answer: we really do not. And you were right back there at Boyce's place. We almost do not care. Our job is to protect the people in the program. As far as we know, Andrew Dees left it voluntarily, there being no evidence the other way."
"Before they slugged me a couple of hours ago, Braverman and Kourmanos went through his unit?"
"Yes. Not forensically, of course, but a thorough search. Some gaps in the closet where clothes would have hung, and in the bureau, for socks, underwear. No suitcase when I am sure he had at least one. No wallet, no checkbook."
"You talk to the neighbors?"
"On what grounds? That another neighbor, named Andrew Dees, who I had little to do with, might not have been around for a day or so?"
Staying sidesaddle, facing Robinette, I said, "There're still a few things I don't understand."
"Probably always will be."
"First off, Hendrix is an idiot."
"No comment."
"Why do you put up with him?"
A glance, away from the road but not quite to me. "He is my superior."
"That's not how it played back in the interrogation room."
"What do you mean?"
"Everybody—including Hendrix himself—took their cues from you."
A smile. "We did run a check on you. Military Police, correct?"
"For a time."
"And overseas. Back then, did you ever notice how some superior officers yield to others when things are going into the toilet?"
I saw her point. "Yet, Hendrix still outranks you."
The smile flew away. "There are statistics on women serving in the federal law enforcement agencies, Mr. Cuddy. We have been 'allowed' to be field agents for over twenty years now, but the FBI is less than ten percent female, ATF less than live percent. And the Secret Service? Worse than that."
"How about the U.S. Marshals?"
"No comment."
I shifted a little on the seat. "Second thing bothering me, I don't see you going off to a school concert with Jamey if you thought a cooperating witness you were watching was in any kind of jeopardy."
Robinette didn't say anything.
"I also don't see Chief Braverman up in Vermont failing to get word to his relative on your team that this private investigator who visited Plymouth Willows, ostensibly to talk about Hendrix Management, was at Dees' alma mater the next day, obviously tracing the background of the witness himself and not how well Boycie's company ran your condo complex."
"We already talked about this back in that room."
"Yeah, and you nicely brought me off the subject once I said I was sure Braverman and Kourmanos weren't trailing me. But that leaves us with a dilemma, don't you think?"
No response, not even a glance.
"The dilemma," I said, "is this. If you got left out of the loop by Hendrix regarding my trip to Vermont, then I can see you going off to the concert with Jamey. But I can't see Boycie not keeping an eye on Dees, using Braverman or Kourmanos or both."
If Robinette didn't have to move the steering wheel, you'd have thought her a statue.
"And that says to me that Hendrix made a bad call, a decision to have Kourmanos and Braverman try to find and follow me last night."
Robinette spoke very precisely. "They went to your office, assuming that you would come back there from Vermont. Then, when you did not, they went to your apartment, but your car was nowhere in the lot."
Which meant the marshals didn't know about Primo Zuppone picking me up at my condo building on Thursday night and taking me to the airport to welcome the Milwaukee contingent. Kourmanos and Braverman would have missed me at Fairfield Street, because by the time they got there, I was already over at Nancy's, and they would have been back in Plymouth Willows by the time Primo brought Ianella and Cocozzo to my office earlier on Friday.
Which also meant that nobody from the marshals' service was watching Andrew Dees on Thursday night. And therefore they couldn't know what happened with or to him after Norman Elmendorf and the Stepanians heard him arguing with a woman in his condo and Steven Stepanian saw him loading luggage into Olga Evorova's orange Porsche.
I turned back toward the dashboard as we came up the front driveway to the complex and headed for my car. Reaching it, Robinette stopped, leaving her engine running.
Looking out the windshield, she said, "I am hoping you meant what you said at Boyce's tonight."
"About?"
"About keeping whatever we have going here at the Willows to yourself."
"You can count on it. I don't want to see anybody else get killed."
"You do not know Dees and your client are dead. In fact, you argued against it."
Not mentioning the Milwaukee boys, I said, "It's not that I think the mob did anything. I'm more worried about Dees himself."
"Dees himself?"
"He runs away from the equity he has in the condo, taking just the money from his bank, maybe realizing my client was responsible for his identity being—what did you call it, 'compromised'?"
Robinette set her jaw. "Mr. Cuddy, I have no reason to believe Mr. Dees could turn violent. When he was in . . .Let us just say his history would be to the contrary."
"It's not his history I'm worried about. More his current affair.”
I opened the door and got out. Tangela Robinette drove off toward her unit before I could thank her for the lift.
=19=
Once in the Prelude, I looked down at the passenger seat. Nancy's rose was standing tall against the door, but about half the water seemed to be gone from the tube. It was a good reminder of where I should go next.
"Am I lucky to catch you home on a Friday night?"
"I guess so," said Nancy, wearing loose-fitting sweat-clothes and holding the front door to the three-decker open with a soxed foot. The bulge from her Smith & Wesson Bodyguard barely showed under the towel in her right hand. "What's behind your back?”
I said, "You'll see when we get upstairs."
Just before Nancy reached the second landing, Drew Lynch's door closed discreetly. At the third, she turned the unlocked knob of her own, Renfield trundling out and in and out again. Something smelled awfully good in the kitchen.
Laying the towel and gun on the shelf by her telephone, Nancy moved to the counter by the sink. "Homemade soup in the crockpot. I stopped at the market on the way home."
"Ingredients?"
"Chicken tenders, lightly fried, then cut up with fresh mushrooms, baby corn, carrots, onions, and a few spices. Mrs. Lynch gave me some of her special broth for stock."
A shifting of stance, a canting of head. "So, what's behind the back, chardonnay or cabernet?"
I brought out the rose. Nancy blinked twice, her mouth forming a little "O." Then she came toward me. Taking the flower from me, she held the bud to her nose. "John, it's beautiful."
"Mrs. Feeney said be sure to give the stem a fresh cut. With a knife, not scissors, so the 'pores' stay open for absorbing water."
Nancy raised her chin. "Mrs. Feeney."
"The woman who runs the florist—"
"I know who she is. It's just that you've never . . ."
Nancy shook her head, then closed her eyes, taking another breath over the rose.
"You okay?" I said.
"Yes. I'm making a memory." She looked up at me. "The blossom hasn't opened yet."
"That's why I asked for this one. I thought we could kind of watch it open together."
"I'd like that, John Francis Cuddy." She paused. “I'd also like just some cuddling again tonight."
"Probably be too full after the soup for anything more strenuous, anyway."
A smile without showing her teeth. "Maybe an old movie on the VCR too?"
"From your extensive collection, or do I call the video store?"
"We can talk about it over dinner." Nancy rotated the rose in her hand like a wineglass. "One more thing, John?"
"Name it."
"Can we have a normal day tomorrow?"
"Normal?"
"I'll have to go into the office on Sunday to prep some more for this trial, make up the time I lost Thursday at the doctor's. But tomorrow, no work, no talk of tests. Just a nice, simple Saturday, okay?"
I thought about it. On the one hand, Olga Evorova was missing, which made me want to do something positive toward finding her. On the other hand, I didn't have any more cards to play in that direction, and another get together with the hitters from Milwaukee didn't seem wise until I had something tangible to prove I wasn't hiding Andrew Dees from them. And there were my memories of Beth just after we'd found out she was sick, and how much time with her then had meant to both of us.
"John?" Nancy was looking at me, her eyebrows forming a worry line.
Cupping my palms, I rested one on each of her shoulders. "A normal Saturday sounds great to me, kid."
* * *
In the morning, we ate muffins and drank hot chocolate at a little hole-in-the-wal
l near Anthony's Pier Four that used to cater exclusively to the men who worked the sea, a Fisherman's Prayer still nailed above a roster of those who could no longer say it for themselves. After that, Nancy and I hopped a bus to Back Bay and the Institute of Contemporary Art, taking in the Elvis and Marilyn exhibit, goofing on the crucified Las Vegas lounge suit and gold-painted shrines but lingering over some of the affecting portraits and candid photos. We had a pub lunch at Charley's on Newbury Street, then spent the afternoon walking hand-in-hand along the river, all the way to the Larz Anderson Bridge and up into Harvard Square, shopping the shops without buying the buys.
Dinner was at Grendel's Den, a large restaurant of surprisingly intimate little tables and superb food priced for grad students and assistant professors. Across the alley is the House of Blues. Passing the tourists clucking over T-shirts on the first floor, Nancy and I climbed to the second level. The cathedral ceiling has skylights, each a silhouette of a seminal blues artist with names and places of birth underneath. Rick Russell's band played wonderful riffs, from guitar to brass, and while it wasn't exactly dance music, we found ourselves doing a modest bump, hip against hip, here and there.
By eleven-thirty, I was hailing a cab that delivered us back to Southie twenty minutes later. Inside her apartment, Nancy gave Renfield a midnight snack.
Then she turned to me. "That ought to keep him diverted." Winking, Nancy took my hand and led me into the bedroom. "Only thing is, I want to leave my bra on while we make love."
“Nance—"
"Please. We can talk about it afterwards, but not before, okay?"
"Okay."
* * *
I lay on my back, spent.
Nancy leaned over me in the near-dark, her lips just brushing the right side of my nose. "Sailor, you sure know how to show a girl a good time."
The past half-hour had been intense, each of us moving with the other for reasons selfish and sharing. Nancy had spoken first.
I lifted my right arm, and she cuddled frontways against my side. Using my right hand, I stroked her gently along the spine, up and down below the bra strap.
"That feels so good."
"Nance?"
"Yes?"
"I thought you said last night that until we heard from the doctor, you wanted to lead your life as normally as possible."
Invasion of Privacy - Jeremiah Healy Page 20